


Start and End as One

by YawningOverTheTapestries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hotel Sex, M/M, Making Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Night, is this fluffy enough?, surely not!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YawningOverTheTapestries/pseuds/YawningOverTheTapestries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time will only happen once. Truly, just the once. They’re sure of it. All this build-up had to come, to lead right to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start and End as One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sex with Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/926134) by [magikspell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell). 



> I found this glorious dollop of Johnlock ambrosia (and Benedict and Sophie have tied the knot! yay!!) and so, well, this is just a big excuse for me to dish up all this slushiness.  
> Enjoy!

There is _one_ time, one special time, which neither of them really waits for, but possibly waits for _them_ instead. Maybe it’s because this is the time that’s the aggregate of all the exciting nerve-wrangling preparation for it – well not it per se, but the long day that comes before it.

The day brims over with floral fuss and vows and confetti, reasonably low-profile, with just immediate family and closest friends. They had wanted to keep it quiet and intimate, but that does nothing to stop it turning into an extravagant party.

This time will only happen once. _Truly, just the once. They’re sure of it. All this build-up had to come, to lead right to it._ It can only go one way, and this is it. It starts with a pair of exhausted, delighted smitten idiots, still in their now-slightly-rumpled formal dress, crashed on the bed in the honeymoon suite beside each other, trying to get their lungs working properly while chuckling to themselves for a few moments at a time.

 

“What’s the time?” Sherlock asks, voice a sigh, eyes still to the ceiling.

“Erm…” John writhes on his back and tugs back one shirt cuff. “Twenty past one.”

 

He’s answered with a groan, Sherlock’s hands being flattened right into his face. “That’s preposterous.”

John pushes his hand under Sherlock’s, and the _new_ bit gets a quick kiss. “I know,” he sighs, his tired voice still somehow coming through, “but I’ve enjoyed myself so far, which is the important bit, I think.”

 

Sherlock drags his hands down over his cheeks, and repeats “s _o far?_ ”, tentatively, for some reason; John rolls closer, getting his arms round his love, teasingly tugging at his collar. His other hand winds through the mop of hair, twisting a curl into an infinity sign round his fingers. They’re still clinging to each other as Sherlock pushes himself upright, with John sat beside him , cheek at his shoulder and taking his time to say “ _My gorgeous husband_ ,” properly, for the first time.

“My God…” Sherlock drops his hands into his lap, revealing a dazed smile.

John holds him close, sharing the soft tremors, laughing lightly against his lapels and planting a kiss. It’s slow and awkward and full of _I love you_ repeated over and over, and Sherlock pulls at John’s jacket, that rich chuckle of his breaking through the kiss.

John nudges his nose against Sherlock’s. “What?”

“Oh, just… wondering if Lestrade thinks we should be hard at it by now,”

 _Oh, yes, the glorious best man speech._ John has to laugh as well, just as he and everyone was in stitches, by the end of their best friends’ long rendition of It’s-High-Time-This-Lovesick-Pair-Should-Finally-Be-Married, complete with every moment of proof he managed to capture on his phone.

 

“I thought you’d be embarrassed,” John lets his hands slide, tantalisingly, down his back, and back up, fingertips light over the fabric, before stroking through his hair again. “From what I’d heard, Greg had been compiling that for years.”

The next kiss lingers, Sherlock dragging his tongue slowly against John’s; the kiss tastes of elation and champagne and how everyone tells them how happy the pair of them are. “The best things take time, John.” Sherlock’s hands are firmly round John’s waist, knowing how he’ll take ages to unfasten the buttons. John, for once, is going to brightly refuse to care. The day had been for all their loved ones as well as them both, but this night will be theirs alone. He’s going to make this _so_ good; if there’ll ever be a time to lose themselves in each other, now is the time.

 

 

Slowly, lovingly, they unwind the day between them: Mrs Hudson already in floods of tears at the giving of the rings, Mycroft tucking illicit slices of cake into his pockets like a drug dealer, the Holmes parents being the last people sober enough by the end of the night to provide a rendition of _Islands In The Stream_ , how Molly will likely be unenviably tasked with dragging a stone-drunk Lestrade back to their room…

 

 

At the same time they unwind one another of their clothes. John will _never_ get bored of unwrapping Sherlock’s pale, sinuous body; sliding his hands down the slope of Sherlock’s throat and gently slips his shirt off, and squeezing lightly at his shoulders, stroking fingertips down his sternum, before reaching round to smooth his hands down Sherlock’s ribs, stripping away more of the tangled clothing between them and stopping at his waist, ready to lower him down…

Oh, _how_ carefully they learned how to do this, how to touch each other, and feel so at home in each other’s arms… they shift up the bed before Sherlock gets tipped down into the plush avalanche, John resting on his elbows above him, and, and… something peculiar happens.

 

Sherlock’s trembling, now that he’s been stripped bare and there’s a perfect band of sleek titanium round his left ring finger that marks him as John’s. They’ve made love so many times before tonight, so _why_ does this time feel so… new? Why does this feel like the first time? All Sherlock seems to be able to do is gaze helplessly up at John, starting to melt inside at the sight of that gleefully adoring smile on his face. Sherlock reaches up to stroke John’s cheek, saying his name in a sigh dripping with love and longing, as John kisses his palm. He rubs small circles into his side, trying to soothe Sherlock through his nerves, answering him in the same words as he gasps aloud “ _John, I love you!_ ”

John flattens down over Sherlock, letting himself be wrapped in a warm tight squeeze of Sherlock’s arms, sinking into a dizzying kiss… what this is, is consummation. The culmination of this whole day, a new beginning.

_It’s official now. We’re a unit, we’re married, we belong to each other. There isn’t a single thing in the world that could compare to you._

_And yet, I_ still _can’t quite believe we made it here._

 

The deep, imploring moan John draws from Sherlock, fastening his lips at a tender spot at his neck, chimes against the walls, and dissolves into a crescending soft sobbing, at the feel of John’s soft kisses run over the fresh, deep pink blotch, on a slow trickle down his chest… John’s torn between holding Sherlock close and lavishing him in more pleasure, listening to those sweet pained noises. And he attempts doing both, shifting himself up so he can nuzzle into Sherlock’s chest, and press his ear where he’d dropped a kiss, listening to Sherlock’s hard-beating heart.

Sherlock writhes, thighs tense round John’s waist, hands plastered to his shoulders and fingers tracing the roughened edges of scarred skin – every time, Sherlock _has_ to touch it, the gunshot that fractured John’s fate, so it could fix itself, into _this_.

_This is sheer luck. Impossibly fleeting luck. This kind of luck doesn’t happen to people._

Sherlock’s heart almost _feels_ swollen, with all the love it’s full of. He caresses John’s tawny head as it rests on him.

 _It’s all yours._ I’m _all yours._

He can feel John’s hardness dig against his thigh, moist with sweat, and arches up off the bed to align himself to John properly; Sherlock’s hips get caught in John’s hands, steadying him, and Sherlock grips at the small of his back, holding him at that perfect angle. Rubbing gently against each other, the fireworks begin to set off, and John sighs, lost in the relief of brief, heady friction. Sherlock feels pliant and heavy, slowly unravelling with John’s clever hands and aching, tender kisses. “You’re _so_ good to me,” he breathes, helplessly, his head tipping back.

John has one hand braced on Sherlock’s waist to lever himself. “Aren’t I?” The delight in his voice is plain to hear. “I spoil you absolutely rotten…”

Sherlock groans, unabashedly, craning up, feeling John push into him, rocking his hips back just as he likes it, stroking him in all the places that feel _amazing_ , tracing a fingertip round a nipple, pebbled up under the delicate touch… _ohh yes,_ John certainly does spoil him…

“…and you’re always worth it, you know.”

Something snaps in Sherlock, his voice breaking, the flush from his cheeks right down to his heart feeling even warmer, his sight going fuzzy, with each smooth, satisfying roll of John’s hips cradled against his own, deepening the bridge between them… the kisses are feather-soft on his chest and burning at his jaw and the tears hot as they slide out from the corner of his eyes –

 

Oh.

 _Tears_. How tedious.

 _Why do I have to cry? I_ know _how simple and destructive the chemistry is, even though we turned it into something beautiful. And this will just embarrass both of us –_

 

John gently takes him into his hand, pumping slowly, in rhythm with the leisurely rocking of his hips, hard against his soft belly… and then John leans down to kiss the tears moistening his cheeks and melting into his hair, not letting Sherlock hide his face in his hands. And the tears still refuse to lessen…

“John, I… I’ve… I’ve _never_ been so _happy_ … in all my life…”

 

John gives Sherlock’s nose a deft kiss. “Oh, sweetheart, neither have I.”

He lets him try to settle his breathing, take all the time he needs through all this overwhelmingness. Nothing could have prepared them for the flood of emotion that comes with this, but they’re not stopping. “You’re the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me.”

_Oh, John, you mean the entire world to me as well…_

At last, the weeping is starting to quieten, but the _noises_ , the shuttering whimpers, sound pitiful. Sherlock leans forward into the back of his hand. “ _I’m sorry…_ ”

“Hey,” John cups Sherlock’s cheek in his own hand so he can lean into that instead. “Why would you say sorry on our wedding night?”

The last sob, a tiny burst of sound almost sounding like a laugh; it gets felt rather than heard, a tremble running right down Sherlock’s body, bucking gently into John’s hand and spilling over his own stomach, gasping noisily as he resurfaces and John’s still holding him, stroking at his chest and telling him how beautiful he looks right now… he crashes into his own climax seconds later, sprawled bonelessly over Sherlock, rocked into rapture.

 

The thick snowy-white bedcovers make it look almost heavenly. John brushes at the tears round Sherlock’s eyes, cuddling him close despite the viscous, milky glue of come and sweat clinging to them; a shower will probably be in order as they don’t want to leave a mess on these sheets. Sherlock’s floating in gentle tiredness, the heart-deep post-coital glow, and how he feels so… so _blessed_ , because beside him is the man who married him less than a day ago, the soldier of his heart; his professional partner, confidant and moral mentor; tough, fearless, patient through anything Sherlock can throw at him, and with a tart, dry sense of humour; he’s gorgeous, and kind-hearted, and always, _always_ finding new ways to surprise Sherlock…

Sherlock will likely spend the new day showing him off to, well, everyone they walk past. And why shouldn’t he – Sherlock is swimming with pride and joy at _being married to him!_ He can’t help but reach out and run his hand over his clavicle, fingertips dipping into the notch and running along his neck, stroking his ear, brushing through his hair: here it’s ashen gold and beautifully bright against his skin. Sherlock whispers “My gorgeous husband,” into his ear, and John breaks into a triumphant smile, rubbing at his brow for a second in joyous almost-disbelief, before scooping Sherlock right up off the bed into his arms.

They’re far too giddy to sleep; they share a shower, John spending indulgent ages playing with Sherlock’s damp locks, and afterwards John settles onto the bed with a sparkling water from the mini bar, and pretending he’s not fondly watching Sherlock sneak one of the wondrously fluffy towels into one of their bags.

 

“We have to be out of here by eleven, don’t we?”

“We have to check out of this room by eleven.” Sherlock clarifies, joining him on the bed. “Which is mildly frustrating as the taxi is due to pick us up at half past two.”

John sets the bottle on the bedside table, and smoothes his hand over the slope of his shoulder and flank. “Flight’s at five. We might sleep on the plane, but we ought to get some rest now.”

 

Even so, Barbados still feels thousands of miles and hours and hours away. John settles down in the bedcovers, and Sherlock wraps an arm over him. “By the time we leave this hotel, we’ll have been married for a full twenty-four hours.”

“Christ… really?”

“Yes, really,” Sherlock plants a kiss at his temple, smiling into it, and John snuggles closer, both of them eventually falling into sound sleep in their comfortable tangle, until the first golden blush of the morning wakes them. John stirs first, something heavy over his chest and something silky at his cheek; John kisses his hair, curls in a ruffle from sleep and sex, and, sighing in his half-awake state, Sherlock shifts in John’s arms. He’s not going to wake him up, but let this morning slowly unfold, because Sherlock is sprawled all over him like a huge cat, the sheets slipped half off them both so the sunshine bathes them in warmth.

John wants to savour this.

Rolling onto his back so he can stretch, head nestled in the pillows, Sherlock looks so luxuriant, so relaxed, dark curls like spilled ink over his forehead, his eyes starting to flicker open… there was a time when John was used to seeing Sherlock valiant, vulnerable sleeping next to him, curled up in his self-consciousness, fallible in his wholehearted trusting John to be this intimate with him. And the tenderness unfolded into a satisfied bliss before John’s eyes almost without him realising it, until, mere months ago, when John would awake to a Sherlock who’s practically sunbathing in his sleep – _that’s probably the sexiest thing John has ever laid eyes on_ – his face creased into a content little smile that begs to be kissed very, very lightly to _very nearly_ wake him up…

 

But this moment is just _perfect_ , just as it is, and John rolls onto his side, his head rested on his forearm, to smile down at Sherlock, as he relaxes again, his chest slowly rising and falling… those beautiful eyes, their dazzling spectrum of green and aquamarine, full of fathomless depths – John wonders if he’s flying over the Barbadian coast already. Well, they’re not in any rush at all. It doesn’t really matter whether they’re staying in this sumptuous hotel or rushing off to their honeymoon, as long as they’re together.

“Hello again,” Sherlock breathes, reaching up to caress John’s face – this is the moment John finds himself realising, it’s sunk in, it’s real, it’s really real… _this treasure of a man is all his._ John wants to return the gesture, but he slips suddenly into Sherlock’s shoulder, in a tumble of sleepy chuckles and the delicious feel of soft covers on bare skin; he murmurs “Good morning, to you as well,” in return while running his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Sherlock feels like a dream like this, allowing his arms to be pushed above his head so John can ruffle his curls and stroke down his arms, drawing his fingers over the creases in his wrists, torturously slowly down his forearms, his touch easing until he’s just shy of tickling him… and John is right over Sherlock, tucked between his legs and asking playfully “How have I never told you how gorgeous you are first thing in the morning?” in between kisses.

Of course this is them being love-saturated idiots; Sherlock grins and replies with “Please do enlighten me, darling,” pushing his hands down John’s back. He always adores how perfectly they fit against each other – a first burst of arousal flushes through them as the kisses deepen, still without any sense of urgency, but really _last night was fantastic, let’s do it all over again_ , hopefully without the tears.

Sherlock can’t articulate it, any more than just thinking _this probably isn’t a dream. I’ve woken up to my amazing husband beside me, and he wants to love me, he wants to make me feel special…_ it’s definitely a bonus that for once Mrs Hudson isn’t close enough to tell them to quieten down, as Sherlock is audacious as always with the sheer _noise_ , those sultry moans from the deep wet kisses sliding down his chest.

 

By now there is absolutely no danger of either of them ever forgetting this night, this morning – it’s not that there’ll never be a better time, but now is as good as any time, because who cares – “John… ?”

“Hmm?”

 

 _Honestly, who cares? I want to ask him. Why would I not?_ Sherlock cups his hands round John’s cheeks. “John, when did you first fall in love with me?”

“Aw, love…” John wriggles down, running a flattened palm lazily down Sherlock’s belly, tracing carefully round his navel. “I think… when you brought me to 221B for the first time, and you were just about to rush off, even though you told me to make myself at home… do you remember?”

Sherlock dumps his head back. “Of course I do,”

“I, just, remember you standing in the doorway, with that _look_ in your eyes that says ‘you can’t lie to me, so don’t bother lying to yourself’,” John smiles against Sherlock’s skin, planting one light kiss. “You looked me dead in the eye and asked me if I’d seen enough trouble for this life, and, I guess, I knew before the words were out of my mouth.”

“How do you mean?”

Leaning up, Sherlock sees how John looks sombre yet full of love. “I said I’d seen enough, and then a second later I jumped right at the chance Because I wanted more. When you offered… I suppose I wanted you right from the start, and all you needed to do was ask me.”

Sherlock sinks his head back into the pillows, closing his eyes; he can feel John rest his head, drawing an outline of a heart over Sherlock’s stomach. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s _us_ , Sherlock. You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

John traces their initials overlapping the heart. “And I wouldn’t change you for anything, Sherlock. I love you so much.”

 _Oh God, are the sodding tears going to resurface?_ “I love you too, John,” Sherlock cries as passionately as he dares, his voice tremulous as John rubs his nose into the softest spot on his belly, intent on torturously drawing out those wanton moans.

“What about you? When did you fall in love with me for the first time?”

 

“Oh, _I don’t know_ – ”

Sherlock’s breath hitches, a tiny gasp at the feathery brush of John’s lashes against where he’s incredibly, _obviously_ ticklish and John knows it far too well.

“Come on, tell me,” John teases, fingertips skimming over Sherlock’s skin, playfully fighting Sherlock’s own hands off, delighting in the bubbling laughs he rouses; they rise about two full octaves above the voice John is used to, and he’s out of breath before too long.

“I almost said, at the pool, when Moriarty presented you decked out in Semtex to me, and you offered to get yourself blown up to save my skin.”

 

Dropping his face to Sherlock’s stomach again, John sighs, giving Sherlock another butterfly kiss that ripples into a tremble running right up his spine – but after a few seconds of tenderness, John has the grace to say “We had to go through a _lot_ of bullshit before we could be together, so it’s got to be worth it, in the end, right?”

Sherlock’s fingertips stroke over John’s temples. “A thousand times over, John. And next time, I’ll take you down with me.”

John pushes up onto his elbows. “ _Next time_ , I won’t let you. I’m going to make you stay out of trouble whether you like it or not.”

The kiss that follows, long and lingering and sealing that promise, is all emotion, their desire temporarily at the back of their minds; _once we actually get to Barbados it’ll be the first thing we take care of, John._

**Author's Note:**

> This got the better of me, I must say...  
> Problem? Nah. xx


End file.
